


Merry and Bright

by chicklette



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Artist Steve Rogers, But Christmas, Captain America Steve Rogers, Lake House AU, M/M, Modern Bucky Barnes, SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes, Shrunkyclunks, You don't have to have seen the lake house to get the fic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-04
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 20:20:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21664663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicklette/pseuds/chicklette
Summary: When SHIELD Agent Bucky Barnes butts heads with his boss, Nick Fury, Nick sends him to a retreat in upstate New York.  There in the quiet and cold, Bucky examines his life and tries to figure out what he wants for his own future.  Well, he knows what he wants, but a family, someone to love, settling down? Those things are tough to come by in his line of work.A few days into his stay, Bucky find a mysterious sketchbook, and starts to get to know its even more mysterious artist.  What's happening is impossible; you can't talk to someone six months in the past.  But as time goes on, he finds himself yearning to meet this artists, to hear his voice, and maybe figure out if this thing that's building between them is real.A short fic told in daily drabbles, mostly epistolary in nature.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 114
Kudos: 184





	1. Nov 30th

**Author's Note:**

> Howdy folks! I love writing Christmas fics, but have been experiencing some really harsh block of late. So. This fic is mostly drafted in my head. My goal is to add a chapter a day through Christmas. Fingers crossed.

November 30th

Leaning his head against the window, Bucky watches the snowy landscape drift by and thinks about his last conversation with Fury. They’d both been angry, and while it wasn’t the first time the two of them had gone head-to-head, this time feels different. 

_Bucky drops the file on Fury’s desk, blood boiling. “When were you going to tell me about this?”_

_“When you needed to know.”_

_“This is--” Bucky turns and stares out the window. When Maria dropped off the specs for the helicarrirers this morning, she’d done it with a grimace. It took Bucky all of two minutes to realize why. Turning he looks back at Fury. “In what scenario do we need to kill three thousand people in a single minute? Because that’s what these are capable of. That’s almost two hundred thousand people in a single hour, Fury.”_

_Fury shrugs at him. “Two hundred thousand Chitauri.”_

_“You were there and so was I. They didn’t have even close to those numbers and you know it.”_

_“You’re right, they didn’t. Last time. I’m not worried about what happened before. I’m keeping my eye on what could be coming.”_

_“Now you sound like Pierce.”_

_“I’ll take that compliment.”_

_“It wasn’t one.”_

_Fury stares at Bucky, inscrutable, before sighing and turning away. This isn’t the first time he and Fury have butted heads, and it won’t be the last. Sometimes Bucky thinks the only reason Fury keeps him around is to argue with him._

_He knows better, but still. This isn’t something he can back down on. If Fury can’t see Pierce’s slide toward fascism, then it’s Bucky’s job to point it out._

_“I hear your concerns,” Fury says. “The World Council approved Project Insight, and they have full oversight, every step of the way.”_

_“That’s not a comfort,” Bucky says, shaking his head. “How long until their priorities change? How long before those weapons are aimed at China? At India? At any country that has resources we want? It can’t be allowed, and you should damn well know that.”_

_“What I know is that we’re rebuilding from an attack six months ago. One where we lost three hundred and forty six civilians, and…”_

_“And Captain America,” Bucky finishes. “You weren’t responsible for that,” Bucky says._

_“I know,” Fury answers, but Bucky knows he doesn’t believe it._

_Cap had been out of the ice for all of two months before Fury called him in on what would eventually become the Battle for New York. Bucky’d met him once. They shared a moment in the Avenger’s locker room just before the Battle for New York. Steve tried giving Bucky a pep-talk, Bucky told him to can it, and the two of them had laughed together sharing shy smiles that made Bucky sometimes wonder ‘what if?’ There was something about him, a vulnerability when he looked at Bucky that made Bucky feel_ seen. _Bucky, like everyone had been devastated, but not surprised, when Cap took over one of the Chitauri vessels and secured the nuke, flying it into the wormhole._

_He’d never come back out._

_“This isn’t the answer,” Bucky says._

_“This is the direction that SHIELD is taking. I suggest you get with the program.”_

_“And if I can’t?”_

_The two of them stare at each other, heated, before Fury breaks eye contact. “It’s three weeks until Christmas, Barnes. Take a break, get out of town, and decide what you want.”_

_“What?” Bucky asks, incredulous. “You’re suspending me?”_

_“If you were suspended, you’d know it.” Fury opens his desk drawer and pulls out a set of keys. “There’s a place upstate. It’s quiet. Protected. Go up and get your head straight. Come back in January and tell me if you’re still working here.”_

Now on the train, watching the scenery go by, Bucky turns to the task at hand. Is SHIELD’s new direction something Bucky can live with? He can’t talk it over with Nat. She has too much guilt over her past to ever be disloyal to Fury. Maria...Bucky knows she doesn’t agree, but he also knows she’ll go along with it. It’s part of the reason she’d given him the file. She knew he’d go to Fury with it. 

Maybe it is time to quit, he thinks. Maybe it’s time to figure out his act II. His mother and Becca, he knows they’re both proud of him, but they’ve also been pestering him about starting a family, settling down.

But who the hell is Bucky supposed to settle down with? His security clearances mean he either has to date someone high up in SHIELD, or lie to his partner about who he is and what he does. Given the dearth of prospects in option A, and his unwillingness to enter into option B, well, it’s no wonder Bucky’s thirty-three and single.

It would be nice though, he thinks, having someone. He thinks about lazy Sunday mornings in bed with the stereo playing something soft. Maybe pushing back the coffee table late at night, slow dancing as their socks slide easy over the smooth hardwood floors. Or--

“Last call for Utica, next stop Rome.” 

Bucky startles and grabs his bag from the space overhead. There’s an old pick up waiting for him in the parking lot; the keys are on the same ring as the ones for the house, and Bucky plugs the address into his phone.

According to his StarkTek Nav, he should be at the house inside of an hour. 

Bucky has no idea what he’ll find once he gets there. He knows that Fury hopes it will be Bucky’s sense of purpose, sense of loyalty to SHIELD. 

Bucky hopes at the very least he’ll leave in a month feeling a whole lot less burnt out, but he also knows what he’s about. He’s not sure what a future with SHIELD would look like, and he’s even less sure about a future without it.

Watching the icy scenery from the train window, Bucky hopes that either way, it’s worth it.


	2. December 1st - 2nd

Bucky wakes up fast, his body coming to in a moment as the unfamiliar sounds of the lake seep into his awareness. It takes him two seconds to remember where he is and orient himself, before he slowly opens his eyes. 

When he’d arrived, the house had been closed up for the winter. Bucky went around and pulled the shutters off the windows, pulled the sheets from the furniture. Someone had come in and stocked the kitchen, Bucky could only imagine who, and there was a cord of wood around the side of the house along with a wood-burning stove for heat. 

Moving around the small house, he gets a fire going and then puts a pot of coffee on. Looking out of the big picture windows, he watches the weak winter sunlight as it plays on the water. It hits him as he takes his first sip of coffee that he has no idea what the hell he’s supposed to do with himself for the next few weeks before Christmas. 

He knows what he should do: think about his current role with SHIELD and think about what else he might want to do with his life. But that sounds like a Herculean task and Bucky’s not feeling particularly strong. At least not today. 

Instead, he takes a more detailed tour of the house. He finds a closet full of outdoor gear for fishing and ice fishing, snow shoes, and after a couple of passes, a weapons cache that would allow Bucky to mount a one-man defense of the house against at least fifteen highly trained men. 

The basement is heavily fortified and includes oxygen tanks, a fireproof closet, and scuba gear, as well as a small home gym. Bucky has no illusions about who outfitted the house and who some of its guests might have been. It’s as secure as could be, especially once Bucky makes a surveillance sweep and destroys the three bugs he finds.

“Sorry, boss,” he says, just as he destroys the final piece. He knows Nick will understand. 

Bucky spends the rest of the day surveying the property, including taking a bracing run around the lake. It’s a clear day and in the direct sunlight Bucky even works up a sweat. It’s nice. He forgets sometimes how good it feels to take an actual run instead of spending his time in the SHIELD gym, working out on equipment. 

He makes himself a fat steak for dinner and by the time the moon is shining in full, he’s tucked up under a blanket on the couch, catching up on a book that Becca’d sent him six months ago. By the time he goes to bed that night, he thinks that the easy life is something he could maybe get used to. 

.

That idea lasts all of two days. 

By the end of day two, Bucky’s starting to go stir crazy. His phone connects to the internet, but somehow refuses to connect to his work email account, and his texts to Fury on the subject go unanswered. 

So fine. He pokes around a few companies, looks at some open analyst positions. There’s always CIA he thinks, as he gears up for another run. When he gets back, he showers again, then scours the kitchen for yeast and the ingredients for a chocolate babka. He remembers how zen baking can be, and since Nat isn’t around to make fun of him for his very precise technique, he decides why not? Elbow deep in flour and cocoa, he lets his mind wander and doesn’t pay any heed to where it goes. It’s satisfying, slapping the dough into submission, watching the slow rise in the cool air of the cabin, the scent of yeast and chocolate in the air. 

That evening as he sips a cup of cocoa and has a slice of the bread, he wonders how much longer he can hold out in this isolated space. The nearest neighbor is miles away, and the quiet of this place...Bucky wants to settle into it. He can feel his body trying to lean into the stillness, the calm. But each time he starts to relax, something in him startles. He’s been weapons ready since he enlisted at eighteen. It took almost no time for Army Intelligence to pluck him out of the crowd and send him through special ops training, and just as he was about to reenlist, Nick Fury himself came to visit, and Bucky’s been primed to fight ever since.

Aside from a few trips here and there to visit his Mom and Becca, Bucky wouldn’t know a vacation if it bit him in the ass. 

As he lays down to sleep that night, he thinks again about what he might want for his future. He wonders if he should check in with Nat, try to talk through his troubles with her. He knows he should call Wilson, but...Sam has always rubbed Bucky exactly the wrong way. When he actually thinks about it, he knows that half the reason is that he’s attracted to Sam: Sam is smart, funny, and damned good looking. Pure heart. 

And straight. Straight straight. 

But the other half of the reason, the real reason, if he’s being honest, is that he knows Sam will always tell him the truth, and sometimes, that’s just not what Bucky wants to hear. 

His thoughts plague him into dreams, and he realizes that this is exactly the reason Fury sent him here. Bucky’s gotta figure out how to get right with himself, with or without SHIELD at his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank you all so much for the very warm reception you've given this fic. Hoping to update daily. Or close to daily, at least. <3


	3. December 3rd

**December 3rd**

On day three, he finds the sketchbook.

He’s digging around in one of the drawers, trying to get at the last clean tea towel when his fingers brush something hard. Curious, he pulls it out, thinking it might be a cookbook at first. It has a plain blue cover, and when Bucky opens it up, he’s absolutely floored. 

It’s a sketchbook of some kind, and page after page is filled with drawings of the house, the area, all kinds of things. There’s a two page spread of what looks like an old World War II era plane, a pin-up etched into the side. There’s something menacing about it, and Bucky can imagine it taking to the sky, bombs dropping on terrified Nazi’s below. 

A few pages in there’s a picture of a woman, young and beautiful, with dark hair falling in waves around her face. She's vaguely familiar, and the imagine is drawn with so much love that Bucky feels it, a pang of longing, of loss in his gut. He wonders who she was to the artist, and flips to the front of the book to see if the owner wrote their name in it, but it’s blank. 

Taking the book and a cup of coffee, Bucky settles into the over-sized chair in front of the picture window and goes through it, page by page. 

There are sketches of the surrounding area; Bucky recognizes the boathouse and the copse of pines behind it. There’s a study of a small wildflower that’s so vivid Bucky can almost see the colors in it. Sprinkled here and there are notes: the name of a plant, what looks like the lyrics to a song, but Bucky doesn’t recognize it. 

On the whole, the images in the notebook seem benign, but there's a kind of melancholy that radiates off the page. It's powerful, the way each image in tinged with what feels like grief, or loss. There's a bit of yearning in one of the images: It depicts a happy family in their Sunday best, a small girl riding on her father's shoulders as he looks over to his wife, who's looking up at him with adoration. it grips something inside of Bucky. He knows that same yearning, and he's in awe of the artist's talent in conveying it.

It’s hours later when he looks up and realizes that the daylight is already beginning to wane. The days seem shorter up here, and when his stomach growls, Bucky sets the book aside and heads to the kitchen to make a late lunch/early dinner, all the while wondering who the artist might be. 

By the time he’s thrown together a quick pot of tomato soup, and a grilled cheese sandwich, he’s decided that no matter what happens in his remaining time up here, he’s going to find the artist and get that book back where it belongs. Hell, maybe give the guy a hug while he's at it. Sure seems like he could use one. 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kind words for this fic. Seeing your messages in my inbox has brought me such joy. This story will be told in drabbles, and much of it will be epistolary in nature. We're getting there. :)


	4. December 4th

**December 4th**

Bucky wakes up after a long and restless night, his scant dreams filled with sketches, and strong, masculine hands doing the drawing. He’s not sure how he drew the conclusion that the artist is a man. He thinks it’s probably the single study of a left hand in the book. The fingers are broad and strong, with a nice taper at the tips and nails that have been bitten down to the quick. Despite that, they’re graceful hands. Powerful, maybe. No callouses or scars though, so they’re not working hands. 

Bucky wonders if the book belongs to one of the higher ups. He has no idea what this place is used for, so for all he knows it’s a fishing retreat in the summers for all the muckity mucks who make decisions without really thinking about how their orders will be carried out. 

Christ. 

He’s gotta quit SHIELD, he thinks. Project Insight is one deep breath away from fascism. He can’t condone that, can’t be a party to it. On the other hand, he wonders if that’s all the more reason he should stay on board, fight the system from within. 

With a yawn and a sigh, Bucky wanders into the kitchen. It’s all too much to contemplate before coffee. 

He’s staring into space as the coffee’s brewing, leaning up against the counter, when something catches his eye. Well, a lack of something.

The sketchbook is gone.

Bucky is sure he left it on the kitchen table. He’s certain. 

Still.

He combs the house, looking first on his nightstand and then his bed, then the living room and all over the kitchen, the little nook by the window where he likes to read. He even walks around the outside of the house, even though he’s sure he hasn’t left the house since he found the sketchbook. 

For one long moment he wonders if he imagined the whole thing, but when he looks down at his hands, there’s still a smear of graphite on the knuckle of his thumb, from where one of the pages rested against it. 

“What the fuck?” he asks the quiet of the house. In response, the house groans, and Bucky looks outside to see snowflakes starting to fall. 

He takes himself and his cup of coffee over to the window and watches a while. There’s nothing like the stillness of snow, he thinks. The way you can taste the cold, how it can burn, high up in your nose, if you’re not expecting it. 

His coffee mug steams in his hands and he shivers, before turning to stoke the fire on the little stove. He makes himself breakfast, runs a few miles on the treadmill in the basement, and for a short while, he forgets all about the sketchbook. 

It’s not until later that afternoon when he’s making lunch that he goes for a potholder and remembers. Rolling his eyes at himself, he reaches toward the back of the drawer, and almost yells when his fingers hit the hard spine of the book.

“What he fuck?” he says again, pulling the book out. 

Leaning back against the counter, he stares at it for a long moment before he cracks the cover. 

It looks the same. 

Flipping through the pages, Bucky consoles himself that at least he’s not so far gone that he imagined the whole thing, until… He stops cold as he flips to the last page. There, in gorgeous detail, is a whole new sketch, one that he is certain wasn’t there yesterday. 

He gapes at it for a moment before dropping the book and going for one of the knives in the butcher’s block on the counter. Thirty seconds later he’s got a knife in his boot and one up his sleeve, as well as a handgun in his hand. 

He does a thorough search of the house, and then the perimeter, but finds nothing to indicate the presence of another person. It’s not until he’s heading back into the house that he realizes that there are no footprints - other than his own - anywhere in the freshly fallen snow.

“What the fuck?” he says again, breath puffing hot into the cold air around him. 

Bucky’s uneasy the rest of the day. No matter what he tries, he can’t separate himself from his years of training, and each little noise gets his full attention, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling up as he waits for an attack.

He texts Fury twice and Nat once, but neither gets back to him. Undeterred, he sets up some rudimentary surveillance: his cell phone serves as a camera and the feed goes directly to one of his alias accounts. He also sets up some old school traps: string for trip wires, salt sprinkles to capture footprints, a strand of hair on the doorknob. It’s not much, but it gives him a little peace of mind. 

As the day winds into evening, he eventually gives up and gets ready for bed. He knows he won’t sleep. The best he can hope for is the kind of mental stillness that comes over him when he’s looking down the barrel of a scope, waiting for his target to appear. It’s almost like meditation, the way his mind becomes a blank, but is also fully alert, seeing his target. 

Just before he turns in, he decides on one last gambit. Pulling a piece of paper from one of the notebooks he brought with him, and sits down to write a note:

To whom it may concern:

You’re trespassing on SHIELD property.  When  you are caught, you will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. You won’t see daylight for the next thirty years, pal, so do us both a favor and get gone. 

James Barnes

Senior Field Specialist, SHIELD

Ps - if you're the artist, nice work.

Tucking the note into the sketchbook, he leaves both on the kitchen table before going to the bedroom to wait. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, thank you for being nice about all my typos. I'm slowly getting to them, and I appreciate you all not crucifying me for them. <3


	5. December 5th

**December 5th**

Bucky makes himself wait until dawn starts to break. As the sky begins to purple, he gets up out of bed and cautiously makes his way to the kitchen. When he gets there, he blinks. The sketchbook is gone.

“What the fuck?” he says, fingers already reaching for the gun at the small of his back. None of the alerts he’d set up went off in the night, but more importantly, he never heard, never sensed anyone in the house.

He creeps toward the kitchen table, gun at the ready. 

The tripwires he’d set up at the front door are intact. The salt he’d sprinkled near the door, near the table, none of it has been disturbed. The hair he’d left on the doorknob still stands, and all of his other boobytraps remain unsprung.

But the book is gone. 

“This is bullshit,” Bucky says, and stalks over to the coffee maker to set it to brew. 

He’s standing with his back to the counter, looking out over the living space when a thought occurs to him. 

He reaches across and puts his fingers on the drawer pull. “You had better not,” he says, and pulls. There, all the way in the back, is the book.

“Oh, this is bullshit,” he says again, but pulls out the book nonetheless. He can see that his note is still sticking out, but it looks like it’s been moved. 

“What the fuck?”

Opening the note, he notices his fingers shaking. Nothing about this is okay, nothing about this is right. 

There, underneath his own neat penmanship is a spikey note written in a masculine hand:

_ Dear Field Agent Barnes, _

_ Please report to Col. Nick Fury. This cabin has been reserved for my exclusive use and I have no intention of leaving prior to May 1st. That was my agreement with SHIELD. I am certain the town will have accommodations if needed.  _

_ PS - Thank you for the kind words about my art. Please stop messing with my book. _

“Oh, this is bullshit,” Bucky says, before grabbing his phone and dialing Fury’s private line. When he doesn’t answer, Bucky starts to leave a long, ranting message about double booking the cabin before hanging up.

Because...if the cabin was double booked, wouldn’t Bucky have noticed the guy? The fact that none of Bucky’s little traps had been set off means that no one came through while he was in bed. Just to double check, he grabs his phone and reviews the footage of the night before. 

There’s...there’s nothing. Just the table and the book on it, just as Bucky expected.

Then he blinks and the book is gone.

“What the fuck?”

He skips the recording back a few seconds and watches carefully. One moment the book is on screen, and the next...it’s gone. 

Setting the phone and the book down, Bucky calmly walks to the coffee maker, pours a cup of coffee, and drinks it. He pours a second cup, stokes the fire for the day, and walks to the big picture window to look out over the snow. The boathouse is a picture under a soft layer of white, and Bucky can’t help but think that all it needs is a little pine tree to round out the scene. 

He lets his mind wander along those lines: thinking nothing, really, while his subconscious processes the information at hand. It’s a process that’s always driven Fury crazy, but has also always been extremely successful. 

He reads for a little while, then gears up and goes out for a run near the lake. The bracing cold is wonderful against his overheated skin, and the pace he sets is punishing enough that for a while all he knows is the burning in his muscles, the heave of his lungs. It’s perfect. 

By the time he gets back to the cabin, he knows without thinking about what his next move will be. 

Taking the book out of the drawer, he opens it and pulls out the piece of notebook paper, and writes.

_ Dear Artist, _

_ Thanks for giving me your name, by the way. I can tell you’re a real stand up guy.  _

_ Aside from this book, there is no evidence of you being in this cabin, which leads me to believe there’s something else happening here. I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities: _

  1. _You’re a ghost_
  2. _You are here, but in a different, parallel dimension_
  3. _Fury and this job have finally driven me insane_



_ To be honest, I feel like it could be any of the above. So which is it? You dead and haunting this place? Or are you some kind of inter-dimensional time traveler? Because the idea that I’m imagining all of this is a little too heavy to think about right now. _

_ Can’t wait to hear your answer.  _

_ PS - May’s a long time off. Lucky for you, I’ll be outta your hair by New Year’s. _

Placing the book back in the drawer, Bucky starts shedding his clothes on his way to the shower. The hot spray works at the tension in his muscles, but he’s not sure anything will fix the anxiety in his mind. Now that he has a puzzle to solve, he knows he can’t rest until it’s solved. For better or worse, he’s going to get to the bottom of this. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, everyone, for the kind words. I'm so grateful! <3


	6. December 6th

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends! Minor change to chapter one: The battle for New York (and Cap's death) occurred 18 months prior, not 6. The perils of posting a wip! I thank you for your grace. <3

**December 6th**

The morning dawns bright and clear and gorgeous. He loves it when the weather’s like this, and he gears up without hesitation for a run. The lake sparkles and shines in the sunlight, and he thinks he might want to take the little skiff out later, maybe head over to one of the other islands. Hell, he might even take a pole and try to earn his dinner. 

He knows that Fury means for him to keep a low profile, but the fact is he’s starting to go a little stir crazy. He’s never been one of those guys who has a lot of friends, but he’s always _had_ friends: people that he could trust to have his back, people he could bounce ideas off of, or just share a quiet meal. 

Now he’s out here in the middle of nowhere, and he’s--well he’s lonely is what he is. He’s lonely with an ache that’s settled deep inside of his chest, his bones. He’s missing his team, and he’s missing...well. It doesn’t matter, now. 

He has no idea how to fix it, not now. It seems he has no idea about a lot of things these days. 

He mentally shrugs and carries on with his run. 

By the time he returns to the cabin, the sun is bright and warm, and his skin is practically steaming as the chill of the morning burns off. He takes a quick shower (military training he can’t seem to shake), and then heads to the kitchen for a fresh, hot cup of coffee. 

Of course, he ‘s been putting off checking the drawer. The run, the shower, even the cup of coffee: they’re all stalling tactics in the game he’s playing with himself. That book has become a damned mystery, and he’s nothing if not dedicated at sleuthing out the truth. 

He forces himself to get through a half of a cup of coffee before he finally relents and opens the drawer. The tea towel sits on top as usual, but there, tucked into the back, is the book.

And tucked into the book is the piece of paper. 

He opens it, reads the response from the other man, and bites back a laugh. Of course, he thinks. Of course. 

He reads the letter twice, then sits down to pen his response.

_Dear Field Officer Barnes,_

_As entertaining as the notion is, I can assure you I’m no ghost. To everyone’s surprise (not the least of all mine) I am living and breathing, here in 2011._

_As for parallel universes, well, I’d have to leave that to the science guys. I know a lot about fighting, but not much else._

_As for the last option, pal, if you’re losing your mind, then what’s that say about me?_

_Hell, who knows? Maybe I have lost it._ ~~_Maybe when they pulled me_ ~~

_Given that the only proof I have that you exist is this note, well, I’m going to withhold judgement. Who knows, maybe in another week they’ll find me holed up in this cabin, having imaginary conversations with...a book._

_Christ, I have lost it._

_Clearly I'm not someone with a whole lot of answers in my pocket._

_PS - Now who’s crazy? May is only three weeks away._

When he gets to the ending, he’s at a loss. Does he sign his name? An alias? Anything? 

He argues with himself for a bit, but finally decides that while he’s not comfortable being honest, he’s also not comfortable being dishonest either. He finally settles on a compromise, and how much would Peg love that?

_PSS - You can call me Grant._


	7. December 7th

**December 7th**

Bucky lights all the way up when he gets Grant's letter. His mind was buzzing all night about alternate universes, about parallel timelines, other dimensions. He didn’t spend his youth watching old Twilight Zone reruns and reading Philip K Dick under the covers to just ignore the idea that something really interesting is happening.

It also scares the shit out of him, because he’s seen wormholes in space that spew out aliens, so he knows that just because something is amazing doesn’t mean it’s good, or even benign.

Still, this is the most excited he’s been in forever. It’s fun, waking up each day to a surprise letter in the drawer. It’s fun getting to know the person on the other end of whatever this situation is. It’s fun having something new to think about, to be challenged. 

He knows he’s not the smartest guy in the room, not by a long shot. He meets regularly with Stark and Banner, so he knows.

But he also knows he’s no slouch, and he knows that thinking strategically--being two steps ahead of the other guy--that’s his strong suit.

From what he’s seen, Grant’s no slouch either. He hopes that between the two of them, they can figure out just what’s going on. 

As the coffee brews, Bucky opens the drawer and takes out the book. 

When he’s done reading, he crosses a couple of the possibilities off his list. He also makes a note of different ways to try to test the boundaries of whatever this thing is. Either way, he sits down with a pencil and a smile to write back to Grant. 

_ Dear Grant, _

_ Well I think we’ve found our problem: Today’s date is December 7th, 2012. You’re a whole year off. Which means we’re dealing with some kind of time alteration. Maybe parallel universe? Not too sure. You mentioned Nick Fury in your first note, and this is a SHIELD safe house, so I don’t think I’m too far off in asking if you have any experience with the occult? Seems like something like that is at play. _

_ Are we even sure that we’re both on the same world? There’s this whole multiverse theory that we are all living parallel lives in different universes. Like what if in your universe the sky is made out of lemons and the ocean is magenta? _

_ Sorry. I read a lot of scifi.  _

_ Seriously though, I think we need to figure out exactly what’s going on here. There’s a reason that this is happening, and I want to make sure that we’re not seeing the by-product of some kind of scheme.  Not that long ago we lost a great man to _

_ Let’s just say I’ve seen some things, and this doesn’t sit easy with me. I know a couple of guys I can call--probably the smartest men I’ll ever meet. They might be able to shed some light on this for us.  _

_ So. Tell me about your world. _

_ Barnes _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Your kind words about this fic are making MY days Merry and Bright


	8. December 8th

**December 8th**

_ Dear Barnes, _

_ My world? It’s probably a lot like yours. The sky is blue, just like the ocean . Lemons taste sour (my Ma liked to eat them with salt), and magenta’s one of the prettier colors I’ve ever seen. You’ve seen my sketches, Barnes. You know we’re living in very similar worlds, if not the same world. For what it’s worth, it’s April 16th, 2011 in my world.  _

_ To be honest, time travel doesn’t really sound so far off, but the question is how is a book doing something that’s eluded the best scientific minds of our time? Or is it the drawer? Is that the conveyance? I wonder if anything we put in the drawer will come through. Fess up, Barnes. Are you using my tea towels? _

_ Seriously though, I’m not the smartest guy in the room, but think twice about who you share this with. Whatever is causing this phenomenon is powerful, and I’ve seen what power can do when the wrong person gets ahold of it.  _

_ So tell me about yourself, and your when. How did you get into SHIELD work? Does your world have flying cars yet? What’s the best thing your time has to offer? _

_ In my world the best thing is also the worst. It’s real easy to be in touch with folks. You can pull a communicator out of your pocket and talk to just about anyone, anywhere. But somehow that makes it harder to connect with people, you know? I can call people or send a message,  _ _ but I can’t name one single person that I call friend _ _. But it’s not the same as when I was a kid and knew all my neighbors.  _

_ Anyway, it’s kind of nice knowing I’ve got someone else in this with me.  _

_ Take care of yourself, Barnes. _

_ Grant _

Steve folds the letter and puts it in the book, then puts the book in the drawer.

He tries not to think about it as he goes about his day, but….

But it’s fun. He has to admit it; he’s having fun with this. It’s concerning too, no question about it, but it’s also fun. 

Whoever Barnes is, he’s shown himself to be a pretty bright guy. He’s already trying to think three steps ahead, and Steve appreciates that in a teammate. The Howlies, they all had their skills, and Steve counted on each of them, every step of the way. But he didn’t have anyone like Barnes on his team, who could look at a problem and anticipate various outcomes. He wonders what might have been like if...If.

Well anyway. 

Steve shakes it off and heads out for a run. He’s dying to know more about Barnes, and he hopes that Barnes is curious about him as well. It’s nice having something to do, something to keep his mind occupied.

He knows that Fury wants to keep Captain America under wraps, and he’s grateful that he’s not being thrust back into some dog and pony show, he is. But….

It’s just strange, being shut up in some isolated cabin, being given lists of movies to watch and books to read, and lessons in technology.

Cell phones are so weird. 

Taking a long, hot shower, Steve decides to drive into town for lunch. There’s a diner that makes one hell of a cherry pie, and Ginny, the waitress, is just the right amount of sweet while also not getting to friendly. 

Heck, he might even pick up some ice cream for later tonight. And maybe drop by the bookstore and see what they’ve got under "scifi."


End file.
